


Skeletons in the Closet

by Larkawolfgirl



Series: Dare to Write Challenge [16]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anorexia, Established Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but unhealthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 13:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12936150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larkawolfgirl/pseuds/Larkawolfgirl
Summary: Gladio has long since surrendered to the state of their relationship. One thing he's learned after many failed relationships is that you can't go in expecting to change someone, and Prompto has no intention of changing.





	Skeletons in the Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the dare to write challenge. Prompt: the feeling of ribs
> 
> I have never had anorexia or known anyone who has, so please ignore any inaccuracies.

Gladio has long since surrendered to the state of their relationship. One thing he understands after so many failed relationships is that you can’t go in expecting to change someone, and Prompto has no intentions of changing. It hurts to see him harm himself like this, but help that’s unwanted does more damage than good.

He definitely tried in the beginning. He damn well tried everything he could think of. Complimenting and assuring, presenting him with all of his favorite foods, showing him where he fell on the body mass index, forcing him to stare in the mirror for excessive lengths, attempting to prove to him just how fragile he was. But all of it only made him worse. Panic attacks, crying fits, throwing, verbal insults. Eventually, Gladio learned to swallow down his own feelings for the sake of Prompto’s.

He loves Prompto and tells him so. Daily. Sometimes hourly. It’s the best he can do, especially during those moments when he finds the sunflower wilted over himself, knees pulled up and head bent down. Tears stuck in his eyes and fists balled. Quiet murmurs that increase when Gladio wraps loose protective arms around him and kisses at the crown of his head and tear-streaked face. Prompto always feels the smallest during those times, as he shakes against him as if he might shatter apart with the slightest pressure.

Gladio’s focus is always on making him feel safe and protected, but Prompto won’t have it—doesn’t believe he deserves it. Once the shaking stops, he always twists himself, forcing himself into Gladio’s lap, mouth meeting his roughly, lips biting and goading until Gladio gives in and holds him tighter. Until his hands dip into sharp hipbones, until his tongue plunges deep and forceful, until aggressive growls escape him.

Prompto knows exactly what he is doing, and Gladio knows exactly what it is he wants. Prompto wants to feel the bruise of his body on him, wants to feel the crush of his grip, the tug of his teeth, the twist on his nipples and vice on his cock. Gladio roams down his body, feeling the rise and dip with every protruding bone, seeing the thin skin turn a raw pink under his nails. He pauses at his waist and squeezes until bone digs into the palms of his hands and he can feel the paranoia in the back of his mind like a foghorn. One more press, one more ounce of pressure and he’d snap like a twig.

It would be so easy.

It is always at that point that Prompto’s head falls back, mouth agape and eyes blown out in pleasure. He waits, a beat, a cry, before he can thankfully release his hands to tug himself out of his pants. Prompto’s begged him time and again not to prepare him, but Gladio still refuses to go in bare, always taking the time to coat himself in lube first. He’s sure Prompto would try to stop him, so he always bites at his nipples to keep him distracted.

When the blonde is panting and pleading for that burning fill, he pushes in. Far gentler than the blonde seeks because Gladio already can’t stand that look of anguish that flits over his face when first penetrated (especially how it manages to go straight to his cock). Only once Prompto is squirming and scratching at his muscled arms does he begin to move. One, two slow strokes just to make sure before he sets a harsh rhythm, watching as Prompto’s eyes pop out and spittle leaks from his mouth. He’s a sight of perversion, turning Gladio’s stomach even as his skin burns and eyes remain fixed. He reaches for the man’s leaking cock, giving him one stroke (to remind himself that this is _not_ what he wants) before strangling the organ so tightly it grows an ugly shade of purple. Prompto cries in a mix of pain and pleasure unparalleled and Gladio pretends he hates the sound. He thrusts and strangles and gropes, trying not to think or judge. Trying not to feel like a monster as his boyfriend shatters beneath him.

Sometimes, Prompto is worse. Sometimes he is fucking destructive. Not moving an inch until Gladio sucks it up and lifts a whip, raises a flog, brandishes a candle. The smacks and sizzles remain far longer in Gladio’s head than the marks on Prompto’s skin, and he wonders whenever he finds the blonde tracing the remnants or ogling them in the mirror who it is this hurts more.

Prompto is fragile, a ripple of skin across brittle bone. Gladio is tough, all muscle and strength. Prompto is broken without a doubt, has been for longer than he knows, but Gladio is splintering. Each time he holds him the thought lingers, how easy it would be to pulverize him with nothing but his bare hands. How disgustingly satisfying it would be to end this all. To no longer count the man’s ribs with nothing but his eyes and toss out more food than they eat. To no longer wake with the fear that he may no longer be breathing. To break down when he’s alone in the bathroom because of how much _he_ _himself_ hurts. The way his heart feels ready to burst with nowhere to go and little return. Because Prompto says he loves him—of course, he does—but what is that worth when he whittles himself away without a care how it affects Gladio in turn. Because Prompto’s love comes tight and restricted and leaves Gladio wanting.

Prompto’s the sick one, yet Gladio feels just as unwell. Words sit in the back of his throat, unspoken and gulped down with each bruising kiss. Pain covers his eyes when he looks at his ray of sunshine and sees him for what he is.

Gladio knew Prompto was like this from the beginning—broken and beautiful—but he no longer knows what this is between them. He no longer knows what he’s capable of or how this will end.

The only thing he knows is that it can’t last—not like this.


End file.
